


END: Grafted Roses

by EntameWitchLulu



Category: Ib (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Gen, this is the REALLY good ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:28:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29116017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntameWitchLulu/pseuds/EntameWitchLulu
Summary: Ib learns that the only way Mary can leave is if she takes someone else's place.Ib decides there must be another way to end the story.
Relationships: Garry & Ib & Mary (Ib)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 34





	END: Grafted Roses

**Author's Note:**

> YES i know i have multichapters to work on. YES i know this game is nine years old. BUT i only just played it for the first time last night and i am taking advantage of my brief stint of being extremely obsessed with something for a period of up to three days after i first enjoy a Media to finally write something since i have been barely able to get a word out of me in months. Here you go.

“You might feel sorry for her, but she’s not human,” Garry says. But his voice, and his hands, are shaking. There’s a strange look in his eyes, a furrow to his brow as he looks down at the crumpled, unmoving Mary. Unmoving, not because she is dead. But because, perhaps, she was never alive. “She’s another one of Guetera’s creations, like the ladies in the painting.”

Ib trembles. She clings to Garry’s coat, staring down at Mary. Just moments ago, they were holding hands. Just moments ago, her hand had felt warm, and solid, and real. Now she looks down at the rose that has crumpled before Mary’s hand, and she can see that it is painted on. Plastic. Fake.

She sees the palette knife on the ground and remembers the way that Mary held it. The way her eyes had shone with something dark and unreal. How different they had been from the bright, curious eyes before. Ib trembles, and the view of Mary blurs with her tears.

“Ib? Are you okay?”

When Garry turns to her, all she can do is throw her arms around him. He startles a moment. For a moment, his hands only hover over her shoulders. Then, gently, he sets a hand against her back, and the other pats her hair, gently, awkwardly.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Garry murmurs. “Come on. We should get out of here.”

Ib nods against his chest. She wants to get out. She wants to go  _ home _ .

_ “I was trying to get out of here. I didn’t know anyone else was here too.” _

Mary’s voice echoes in Ib’s mind as they carefully walk around her, back to the door. She’d sounded so...real.  _ I was trying to get out of here _ . Ib can’t help but look down at her again. Now she can see the way that Mary’s dress looks like it’s made of oil paints. The way her skin sort of seems to blend into the ground with thin, paint-like strokes.

Ib’s eyes fall on the rose again. She hesitates, tugging against Garry’s hand.

“Ib? We really need to go,” Garry says, though he doesn’t pull. He just holds her hand.

Ib stares down at the yellow rose.

Before she can think about it, she crouches down, and picks it up. 

“Ib?”

Ib doesn’t respond. She stares at the rose. It feels like plastic, with the faintest damp feeling, as though it was recently painted.

Before Garry can ask again, she stuffs the yellow rose in her pocket. She feels it nestle against the red rose stowed safely away there. Garry opens his mouth, a question hanging silently in the air. But Ib tugs on his hand, and leads him back out through the door, and he does not ask.

* * *

“Is this even the right way?” Garry mutters, leading the way up the crayon scribble steps.

Ib tries to keep her breathing quiet. She doesn’t want Garry to know that her rose has only one petal left after that fall. He’ll get all nervous and panicky and overprotective and then it’ll be harder for both of them. She doesn’t want him to be any scareder than he already is.

She clings to his hand, her other stuffed into her pocket, fingering the stem of her rose. Her fingers touch the other stem, then, and she remembers the yellow rose. Oh. That one didn’t fall out of her pocket.

It still feels damp, slightly, even now. Freshly painted. But when she looks at the pad of her finger, there’s no paint smudge there. She puts her hand back into her pocket and grips it.

“Man, it’s hard to tell what’s what up here,” Garry says, squinting around at the black, scribbly room. “Nothing looks real — I couldn’t even tell that thing was a bucket back there.”

Ib nods, though she could tell easily, and she wonders if being an adult means you stop seeing things the same way. 

Garry hesitates at the top of the stairs, and his hand tightens on Ib. 

“Hang on,” he says. “That looks familiar, doesn’t it?”

He points across the room. At the far end, a painting hangs on the wall. Unlike the rest of the sketchbook, it looks more real. The golden frame is pretty, but inside, the painting seems to have been torn partially off. There are little hints of color on the pieces of canvas that still stick inside. Ib doesn’t recognize it, but Garry is frowning.

“Let’s check it out,” he says.

There are toys scattered all over the floor in front of the painting. While Garry wanders up to it, rubbing his chin and still frowning, Ib turns away to inspect the items left behind. They’re mostly things like were in the toy box. The weird blue doll, laying limp in a heap. A mannequin head, staring blankly at her. And...sketchbooks. Lots and lots of sketchbooks. Ib picks one up. It lays open, a big crayon-drawn map of the town they’re in scribbled across the page. She turns the page. Here, she sees the drawings they saw in the sketchbook town gallery: a crayon scribble of Mary, of her doll, of Ib and Garry with their roses. She keeps turning. More drawings. Mary’s dolls. The ladies in the paintings. Rabbits. A sunny day at the lake. All done in the heavy crayon hand of Mary.

It makes Ib...sad, she thinks. All these bright, happy pictures. All of Mary’s wishes. Her dreams. 

Is it fair? How can it be? Why did Guertena make a girl like Mary, and leave her all alone here? Did he do it on purpose? Ib can’t imagine it...being here, all the time, with nothing but the dolls and the paintings for company. Being here just for a little bit makes her scared and tired and sad and wanting her mom and dad. And Mary...Mary never had any of those things. Just dreams, and drawings.

She turns to the last page of the sketchbook. In shaky, thick crayon letters, Mary had titled the page  _ Mary’s Diary _ .

_ “I like the visitors coming in to live with me, but...” _

_ “I want to leave this place myself and live outside!” _

_ “But unless I take the place of someone from outside, it seems I can't do that...” _

_ “Won't somebody come soon? Won't somebody come soon...” _

Ib doesn’t realize she’s crying til she sees the tear drops staining the sketchbook. She rubs at her eyes furiously, holding the book away from her so that she doesn’t ruin Mary’s drawings.

Mary is scary. She wants to hurt them. But...but maybe Mary is more scared than either of them.

Ib curls over the sketchbook, shoulders shaking.

“Ib, I know what this is,” Garry says, voice suddenly shaking. “We need to get out of here — Ib? Are you okay?”

Ib swallows, but the lump in her throat won’t go away. She hugs the sketchbook to her chest and curls up a little tighter. How is it fair? How is it fair that Mary has to be here all the time, all alone? That the only way she can get out is if she does something terrible?

“Ib...?”

He leans over her shoulder, and she pulls back, just enough so that he can read the words on the sketchbook. His lips part. His brows draw together. A strange look of pain passes over his face.

“Ib...”

He puts his hand on her shoulder. But if he plans to say anything else, he doesn’t have the chance.

“Who’s there? Is someone up there?”

Mary’s voice echoes up from the stairs, and Garry flinches. Ib gasps. She wobbles up to her feet, still hugging the sketchbook.

Mary appears at the top of the stairs. For a moment, she looks just like a regular little girl — eyes wide, fearful, her hands clutched to her dress. Then she sees the two of them, and shock widens her eyes — before they narrow with a dark, inhuman look.

“How did you — how did you two get up here?” she says.

Her voice cracks. Her hands shake where they have fistfuls of her skirt.

Garry grabs hold of Ib and pulls her behind him, backing up towards the wall. Mary seizes up as they get closer to the painting.

“Get out of here,” Mary says. “Get  _ OUT OF HERE!! _ ”

The ground  _ cracks _ open with a thousand, thick red crayon scribbles, emanating from her feet. The palette knife is in her hand now. Garry says a word that Ib is sure she’s not allowed to say. He thrusts his hand into his pocket and pulls out his lighter.

“ _ NO! _ ” Mary shrieks.

Oh, Ib realizes.

That’s her painting.

Mary is almost on top of them. Can Garry burn the painting fast enough? Does Ib want him to? Mary’s palette knife gleams as she raises it high.

Ib throws her shoulder against Garry. He stumbles with a gasp — but he falls out of the way just in time, just before Mary can reach him. Ib is the only thing that stands in between her and the painting.

For a moment, Mary’s eyes widen. It’s as though, Ib thinks, she didn’t intend for Ib to be at the other end of her knife. Mary’s face goes pale as they both hear the knife  _ thunk _ into something.

Garry lets out a choked sound.

“IB!!”

For a moment, they both stand there. Mary’s hands shake around the hilt of the palette knife. Ib still trembles from the impact.

Then, very gently, she tugs on the sketchbook still in her hands. The palette knife, buried deep through the sketchbook’s pages instead of Ib’s chest, comes out of Mary’s hand. Mary doesn’t try to grab it. Her hands just hang there in the air, shaking.

“I didn’t...I didn’t want to hurt you, Ib,” she mumbles.

Ib nods. She drops the sketchbook, knife and all onto the ground.

“I don’t want to die,” Mary mumbles. “I don’t want you to burn me up. I don’t want to be here forever. Please. I don’t want to be alone. I want to go outside. I want to go outside. I want to go outside.”

Ib nods again. Mary’s hands still hang in the air, still shaking. She flinches ever so slightly when Ib takes them both in her own hands. She presses Mary’s hands between her own, like Ib’s mother does when Ib has a meltdown. Gentle. Grounding.  _ I’m here _ , those hands say.

“I just want to go outside,” Mary gasps, voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I want to go outside with both of you but I can’t. I have to leave someone. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t stay here anymore. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Garry is standing now. He still holds the lighter loosely in one hand, but he makes no move to go towards Mary’s painting. When Ib looks at him, there’s a soft, hurt look in his eyes. His lips are pressed together in a frown.

“You can’t expect one of us to sacrifice ourselves for you,” he says, but his voice is so gentle. “I’m sorry, Mary. But we have to go home.”

“I just wanted....I just want to be real,” Mary says. “Isn’t that ok? To want to be real?”

She is shaking, now, though she doesn’t tug her hands away. It’s almost as though Garry can’t help himself. He walks over to Mary, too, and puts his hand on her shoulder. Despite everything, he looks so sad. 

“I just want to be  _ real _ ,” Mary cries. “I just want to be real!”

She sinks to her knees. Ib goes with her.

Mary cries. She shakes, and she cries, and she clings to Ib’s hands as Ib pulls her closer.

Ib feels something crinkle in her pocket. For a moment, she thinks it’s her rose, losing its last petal. But when she slides one hand from Mary’s and reaches into her pocket, she remembers the yellow rose.

Ib pulls out both roses. Her own, down to a single petal. Mary’s, still full, but plastic and limp. The tiniest of ideas sparks in her head. But is it doable? And she needs more petals....

Garry sees the roses. His eyes widen when he notices Ib’s missing petals. He shoots her a panicked look, and then a suspicious one at Mary, who hasn’t seen the roses yet, her head bowed in tears. Does he think Mary will try to take Ib’s last petal, and take her place? Maybe. Ib looks away.

Beside her lays the sketchbook, stabbed through by the palette knife. It’s...leaking.

Lips parting, Ib tilts her head. Water. There’s water leaking out of the sketchbook. She remembers the drawing of the lake, of the sunny day on the beach. Could it be...?

Experimentally, Ib reaches out and stabs the point of her rose into the puddle. Immediately, it blooms. Petals unfurl from the base, spreading about her single petal. Air comes more easily all of a sudden. She feels lighter.

She feels like she can do this.

Mary still cries, clinging to Ib’s free hand. Gently, Ib reaches out and touches her face. She whispers — but the words come out too quiet the first time. Mary looks up, frowning.

“What?” she says.

Ib tries again. She tries to force the words out, words that are always so hard for her to form, to give breath to.

“You need a heart to go,” Ib whispers. “Why don’t we....share mine?”

Garry makes a tiny, strangled sound. Mary stares at her. She rubs at the corners of her eyes with her free hand, still clinging to Ib’s.

“What...what does that mean?” Mary says.

Ib releases Mary’s hand, so that she can hold both her rose and Mary’s. Mary stares at the two roses, eyes flicking back and forth. Ib holds them by the stems between her knees, so that she can reach for her red rose. She winces when she tugs off a little petal, and pain lances briefly through her.

“Ib!!”

Garry tries to grab her wrist, and even Mary looks shocked, her hands half raising as though to stop Ib. Ib shakes them both off. She doesn’t know if this will work. It...it  _ has _ to work, doesn’t it?

Still wincing, she reaches for the yellow rose. She tugs off a petal. Mary doesn’t react at all, as though there’s no pain. But when Ib presses her red petal to the spot where the yellow petal was, something changes. Mary’s eyes widen. Her hand flies up to her chest, pressing over where her heart should be. Her eyes get even bigger.

“I...what is...what’s that?” she says. “W-what’s that? What’s this — bump bump in my chest!”

Garry’s mouth drops open. Ib smiles. She puts her hand against her own heart — still pumping. It hurt to tear off her petal, but she doesn’t feel like it’s any slower.

“I’ll give you half,” she whispers, pointing to her rose. “Half my heart.”

Mary can only stare at her, her mouth hanging open.

“Then we can go together,” Ib says. “Like you said. Together. Forever.”

Mary’s eyes go watery.

“T...that’s not how it works,” she says. “T-that’s not how it works! That...it can’t be...”

“How...do you know?” Ib whispers.

Mary’s eyes flicker from yellow rose to red rose. From red rose to yellow rose. Something rises up in her eyes. Something that Ib might call...hope.

“This is insane!” Garry says. “Ib, you don’t know that it  _ will _ work? What if you’re both just stuck here? I can’t let you do that!”

Ib shakes her head. She lifts her eyes to Garry’s. Sweet, kind Garry. Who held her hand and smiled even when she could tell he wanted to shake to pieces with terror. Garry, who even after knowing what Mary was, had looked at her so sadly.

“It...will work,” she whispers.

Garry holds her gaze. For a long moment, they only look at each other. Then something breaks. Garry hangs his head.

“You...” he says. “You really are a tough kid, aren’t you, Ib?”

He lifts his head again, smiling that awkward, exhausted smile of his.

“All right,” he says. “Let’s try it.”

Mary swings her head towards Garry with so much shock that her head seems like it might spin all the way around.

“What?” she says. “You want to — after I —”

“Can’t say I blame you,” Garry says. “Being here for only a few hours is enough to make  _ me _ lose my mind. So how can I blame you for losing yours?”

Mary puffs out her cheeks, as though insulted. But Garry just shakes his head with that tired smile. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his own rose. He tugs off a petal, and winces. Mary sits straight up with shock, and Ib’s eyes widen. But he reaches for the yellow rose, and pulls off a petal. He presses his blue one to the empty space, and when he takes his hand away, it stays. Mary jolts again.

“If we’re going to do this,” Garry says. “Then we do it all together. All right?”

“Garry...” Ib whispers.

Mary can’t seem to say anything at all. She can only stare at him.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.  _ All _ of us.”

For a moment, Mary says nothing. Then her shoulders start to shake. Thick, fat tears roll down her cheeks.

“W-why?” she says. “Why would you...both of you...why...?”

She can’t say anything else anymore. She’s shaking and crying too badly.

“W-what’s wrong with me? W-what’s this feeling? I feel...”

“Alive?” Garry asks, softly, as he reaches for her shoulder.

She drops her head into her knees and sobs. Ib strokes her hair, and Garry holds her shoulder.

“Tell you what,” Garry says. “When we all get out of here —  _ when _ — let’s all go out for macarons.”

“M-macarons?” Mary says. “What are those?”

“They look like hamburgers,” Ib whispers, smiling, as she remembers what Garry said before. “And they’re sweet.”

Mary sniffles.

“I don’t know what a hamburger is, either,” she says.

“Oh boy,” Garry says, breaking into a smile. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do for you, huh?”

Mary sniffles. Shakily, she reaches up both her hands. Ib takes one, and Garry takes the other. Then Ib takes Garry’s other hand, and for a moment, they all sit like that, holding hands.

“All right,” Garry said. “Let’s finish this.”

They let go of each other’s hands, and each one of them picks up their rose. Ib and Garry take in a deep breath.

“W-wait,” Mary mumbles.

Ib looks at her. Mary stares at her rose — yellow, with one blue petal, and one red. She reaches down for the fallen yellow petals from when Ib and Garry took them off, and, shakily, holds them out.

“I...I don’t know if they’ll do anything,” she says. “B-but...if you’re giving me your petals...I...I want to give you mine, too.”

Ib and Garry exchange a look. Then Garry turns to Mary, and nods.

“All right,” he says.

Ib takes the yellow petal. She presses it to her rose.

When it attaches, she doesn’t feel anything. No slowed heartbeat. Her fingers don’t feel damp with paint. But...

She frowns, touching the yellow petal. A soft gasp escapes her.

It doesn’t feel like plastic anymore.

It feels real.

* * *

“This...must be it,” Garry says. “‘Fabricated World’....it looks like the gallery.”

Ib clings to his hand. On the other side of her, Mary clings to Ib’s. In Mary’s other hand she grips her rose. It’s a funny looking thing — yellow and red and blue petals all pressed together. Ib’s and Garry’s look a little funny now, too — Ib’s red and yellow in half, and Garry’s yellow and blue.

“If...if it doesn’t work,” Mary whispers, clinging to Ib’s hand. “I...I want you to take your petals back, okay?”

She seems to say it just for Ib, but when she glances across at Garry, Ib knows she means she wants Garry to have his back, too. Something changed in her when she got the new petals. She seems somehow...solider. 

Ib shakes her head.

“It’s going to work,” she whispers.

“But how do we get back...?” Garry mumbles to himself, tilting his head back and forth.

He jumps back, and Mary and Ib leapt too when the lights flashed. When their sight comes back, the frame on the painting is gone.

“Oh!” Garry says. “Can we just...jump through?”

Experimentally, he reaches one hand towards the painting. He hesitates just a moment before pressing his hand against it — and his arm goes right through.

“Whoa!”

He yanks his arm back. He stares at it suspiciously for a moment.

“I hope this isn’t another trap,” he grumbles.

Mary shakes her head.

“This is the gate you came through,” she says. “I remember. I always looked out through this one.”

She bites her lip, looking terrified as she hugs her rose to her chest. Ib squeezes her hand.

“All right,” Garry says, though he doesn’t sound convinced. “I’ll go through first and make sure it’s safe. Then I can help pull you guys through. It’s kind of tall for you two.”

He squeezes Ib’s hand gently, and then reaches across to pat Mary on the head, before he steps forward. He cracks his shoulders, and takes a deep breath. Then, as though before he could think better of it, he jumps.

Garry goes straight through the painting. He looks suddenly much smaller, as though he’s a part of it. But he’s clearer than the other abstract images, and when he stands, it’s clear he’s still moving.

“It...it worked,” he says, his voice a little echoey and distant. “It worked! I’m back on the other side!”

He turns back to the painting.

“Both of you, let’s go!” he says. His arm comes through the painting again, reaching. “Take my hand!”

Ib tugs on Mary’s hand.

“You first,” she whispers.

“But what if it doesn’t work?? What if — what if it leaves you behind?”

Ib holds Mary’s shoulders, and looks into her eyes. This time, she doesn’t know what she can say. She wants to believe it will work — but even if she knew what would make Mary feel better, she doesn’t think she has any words left.

Perhaps the look in her eyes is enough. Mary takes a deep breath, and clutches her rose in both hands. She nods. She turns to face the painting.

Tentatively, she grips Garry’s hand. Ib gives her a foothold between her hands, to help boost her up. For the barest second, Ib thinks that Mary won’t pass through. Her hand will get stuck against the painting and she’ll fall back down.

Then Garry yanks, and suddenly, with a pop, Mary is through. Ib sees her collapse to the ground of the gallery as Garry steadies her with one hand. Both of them, then turn back to the painting.

“Come on, Ib!” Garry calls. “Let’s go!”

“Ib!” Mary cries, her voice tight with fear. “Please — you promised we’d go together!”

Ib reaches for Garry’s outstretched hand. 

“Ib! There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Ib freezes. 

“Ib? What’s wrong? Come on?”

Ib looks over her shoulder. Out of the darkness of the hallway, she hears the click of heels. A shadow forms, and steps into the light. Mother...

“Ib,” her mother says, exasperated. “Where have you been all this time? Your father and I were so worried. Come on, it’s time to go.”

It...it  _ sounds _ like her. It  _ looks _ like her. It looks so...real...

“Ib!” Garry yells.

“Ib!” cries Mary.

“Oh, what are you doing? Don’t follow strangers! Now let’s go, Ib.”

Mother comes closer. Ib can’t seem to move.

“Ib, take my hand!”

“Ib, please!”

“Ib, it’s time to go home, young lady!”

Garry stretches his hand as far as it will go through the painting.

“Ib, trust me! It’s safe!”

Ib’s mouth is dry. Her hand shakes. Which one is the trick? Which is the fake —

She feels something in her pocket. Something soft. Something...warm. Her fingers run across the soft, living petals of the rose in her pocket.

A second hand stretches through the painting. Mary’s.

“Ib!” Garry and Mary both cry out her name.

Ib flings her gaze away from the fake mother. She reaches out with both hands, and both hands grasp hers.

The tug yanks her forward, and she goes tumbling, tumbling, tumbling....

Ib blinks. 

The artificial lighting of the gallery is bright, and annoying. She squints against it, shading her hand over her eyes. Why does it seem so extra bright all of a sudden?

And why...why do her hands feel so warm? As though just a moment ago, someone was holding them...

She bites her lip. For the life of her, she can’t remember what she was doing. She turns back around. What painting was she looking at?

There’s nothing on the wall. Just a long, empty stretch of blank wall. Though...she tilts her head, touching her finger to a discolored spot. It looks like...a plaque used to hang here. 

She steps back from the wall. A strange, creeping feeling comes over her, as though something is watching her. She shivers. Maybe...maybe she should go back to find her parents. She turns, and hurries away from the empty hallway.

Her parents aren’t at reception anymore. They must be at another exhibit. Ib hurries along. For some reason, she doesn’t want to look at the paintings anymore. They seem...spooky. Almost as though they’re mad at her. She keeps her head down — at least, until, out of the corner of her eye, she sees the rose.

She slows to a stop, staring up at the big statue. What an odd looking rose, she thinks. It’s huge, twice her size, with thick thorns as long as her arm coming off the stem. But...she usually thinks of roses as red.

This one has got three different colors of petals, all spiraling around each other: red, yellow, and blue. It’s a little bit odd, and yet...something about it is so pretty. It makes her heart squeeze with some strange burst of relief.

Someone stands in front of the statue, arms folded over his artistically torn coat. Hm? How does Ib know that his torn up coat is “artistic?” Before she can consider what she’s doing, she’s wandered over to him.

He lets out a small puff of air — and then seems to notice her standing right behind him, and jumps.

“Oh! I’m sorry, young lady. Am I blocking your view?”

He steps to the side, but when Ib’s eyes follow him instead of the statue, he frowns. For a moment, he stares down at her. A strange look of confusion passes over his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Is something on my...face...?”

“Garry?” Ib says, before she realizes the name is leaving her.

Garry’s lips part.

“Now, how did you...know...that...Ib...?”

His brow furrows, lips parting. All at once, Ib has the sense that someone is watching them. As though he felt it too, Garry turns at the same time she does.

From the other side of the exhibit room, a girl stands watching them. Her green dress is fisted up in her pale hands, and her pretty, wavy blond hair is falling into her eyes. She stares at them, her lips pressed together. As though she’s afraid. As though she’s....

Alive.

“Mary?” Ib whispers.

Mary’s eyes widen. They fill with tears.

“Hi, Ib,” she says, her voice small. “Hi, Garry.”

Garry says another word that Ib is sure she’s not allowed to repeat.

“It  _ worked _ ,” he says. “It...what — what worked? I — I almost — can —”

Mary doesn’t seem to be able to hold back any longer. She runs to them. Ib throws open her arms and catches her in a tight embrace.

She is real. She is solid. She is warm. And her heart beats in time with Ib’s. In time with Garry’s. Garry is there, too, his arms wrapped around both of them, babbling something about  _ remembering _ and  _ it worked _ and more words Ib shouldn’t say. But none of that matters — not remembering the details. Not knowing exactly what happened.

All that matters is that they made it. They are here. Even if she doesn’t remember exactly what that means right now. They are all here, and their hearts are beating together.

For a while, they all just stand there, wrapped up in each other’s embraces, and even Garry’s babbling peters out.

Then Mary’s stomach grumbles.

Mary jerks back, eyes wide, and presses her hands to her stomach.

“What was that??” she says. “What happened?”

Ib can’t help but giggle. Mary looks so stunned, its enough to have her rolling with laughter. Garry muffles a snort behind his hand. Mary looks back and forth between them, eyes wide.

“What?? What?? Don’t laugh! What’s wrong with me?!”

“Mary,” says Garry. “You’re hungry.”

Mary’s lips part. Then her stomach growls again, and she flushes bright red, as red as Ib’s rose.

“Does being hungry  _ always _ hurt?” she asks.

“Sometimes,” Garry says. “When you haven’t eaten in a really long time.”

Ib nods, still grinning. Mary looks at her own stomach, suspiciously, as though she’s concerned it’s about to betray her with another sound.

“Well,” she says. “What am I supposed to do?”

Garry and Ib exchange a glance, and a smile.

“Mary, do you have any place to go right now?” Garry asks.

Mary bites her lip.

“I...I didn’t take someone’s place,” she says. “So I don’t...know.”

She shifts from foot to foot. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I don’t think I... _ have _ a place.”

For a moment, her eyes fill with tears. The Ib takes her hand, and Garry puts his on her head.

“Tell you what,” he says. “I saw a food truck outside the gallery. Why don’t I treat you today.”

Mary frowns.

“Really?” she said. “Even though...”

Garry just shakes his head with a smile.

“‘All your time here will be lost,’” he says, as though reciting something he read. “That’s what it said on the painting, you know.”

He holds out his hand to her.

“So, the way I see it, I think we’re starting over here. Don’t you?”

Mary looks down at his hand. She looks at him. She looks at Ib. Ib smiles, taking Garry’s other hand, and nodding.

Mary’s eyes bubble a moment, and she wipes them away. She reaches out, and takes both of their hands, her fingers twining into theirs like petals spiraling onto a rose.

“That sounds nice,” she says. “I should introduce myself then, huh? My name is Mary. What’s yours?”


End file.
